


Confess Unto Me

by plinys



Series: Skimmons Week 2014 [6]
Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: F/F, Skimmons Week
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-07
Updated: 2014-09-07
Packaged: 2018-02-16 10:21:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 885
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2266146
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/plinys/pseuds/plinys
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There’s never been anybody else like this before.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Confess Unto Me

**Author's Note:**

> For Skimmons Week Day 6, Vulnerability.

There’s never been anybody else like this before.

There’s been people that have come close, people that she almost considered letting in, that she thought about for nights on end what would happen were she to one day confess to them everything she was feeling, but never before had the words left her lips, never before had she taken a chance and actually opened herself up to somebody.

Never before has there been anybody that she’s stayed up with till the wee hours of the night, confessing her deepest and darkest secrets too.

And never could she imagine there being anybody else but _her._

Nobody else could look at her with such deep understanding until she couldn’t keep her walls up any longer, until confessions were practically torn from her lips, like breaths of air that she cannot contain.

So she tells her the story of her life on those lonely nights, when there’s nobody else around but her to hear the words that have been waiting too long to be told.

She talks about the horrors of the foster homes she ran away from and the blessings of the ones that she never wanted to leave.

She recounts the adventures and the horrors and doesn’t leave any of the awful details out.

The voice beside her never stops speaking encouragements, never turns her away no matter how horrible the stories get, no matter how badly she just wants to break down and cry, the arms just lace around her tighter holding her in place until her shaking stops.

She feels like a child in confession once more, the nuns watching her out of the corner of their eyes, when they think she isn’t looking, waiting for her to admit all of her sins. Except there’s no pastor on the other side ready to deal out her penance, but rather a woman with soft skin and kind eyes who whispers reassurances into her skin when she hesitates over her words, a woman who looks at her like she holds all of the blessings of the world and can do no wrong.

Never before has she felt more trusted and more terrified than in those moments as they lay curled together, the night sky twinkling in the windows, the darkness surrounding them, and their words carrying through the room around them.

There are fingers that brush lightly against her skin, mapping out constellations and patterns that she is altogether unfamiliar with, but as the night goes on she learns to memorize the strokes.

They become a rhythm that she can replicate and find peace in later.

Soon the gentle touches turn to something more, to soft lips pressed against soft skin.

Lips move against her skin, but no longer are they whispering words like a confession, instead they are blessings and enchantments, pressed into the parts of her that she has left open for the world to see.

Their lips will meet, fingers trace over each other, and it’s then that the gentleness will finally give way, the touches will become more urgent, more eager and desperate, and she will do her best to pretend that she is shaking only with _want_ not with fear as well.

Because there is nobody else she does this for, nobody else that she comes so cleanly undone with, time and time again, night after night.

Certainly there have been others.

Other people that she kissed too passionately or held onto too tightly hoping that they wouldn’t leave, that when the morning light came through the window they would still be lying beside her, but never before had somebody remained.

Somebody had once told her that there was a difference between sleeping together and making _love_ , but she had never believed it until those nights.

It is only there as a silver of moonlight illuminates the curve of the spine of the woman perched above her that she can believe in love after all, that she can shuck off her nightshirt before arching upwards to meet her, their bodies fitting together in a way that must surely be a sign from some sort of heavenly power.

And when, the night fades taking their stolen glances and heartfelt words away with it, the light that creeps over them in the dawn, opening up to show her the figure still lying beside her, their fingers curled together, grasping ahold of each other even as they sleep soundly, she’ll know now that all of her doubts were all for naught.

The next time, they’ll repeat the process, and the night after that, and the night after that.

Until she is the one listening to the confession, hearing the stories of rainy London days, spilled tea, and graduate school applications, which seem heavier than anything else she’s heard in her life.

The words will be spoken, with an unfamiliar hesitance, “I know my problems all seem so silly, compared to what you had to go through, but-“

“They matter,” she insists, because if there’s nothing else she has learned from all the nights that they’ve spent together before this is that everything matters.

And so, she’ll return the favor that had been given to her days before, by kissing her when all other words fail to fix the mess that they’ve been left with.

 


End file.
